


Winter Song

by strikeyourcolors



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Christmas, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 08:54:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13073460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikeyourcolors/pseuds/strikeyourcolors
Summary: Christmas means traditions and togetherness and good will toward man. It's also forever associated with ghosts of the past and this year Bruce has a new one to add.  But it's not going to be his burden alone; his family will be sure of that. They all remember Jason.





	Winter Song

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas fic because clearly there weren't enough of those. This one has a more somber feel than last year's but I'm mostly pleased by it! Jason Todd somehow keeps stealing the show in these stories.

"I'm here," Dick singsongs as he drops his suitcase on the floor in the entryway of the manner. "Just like I promised."

The suitcase is basically about to explode, it's packed so full. It's like he's going on a month-long holiday somewhere unknown instead of spending less than a week in a house. His house. The only home he's ever known and yet he still seems to feel the need to pack, Bruce notes. As though they don't have clothes that fit him or his preferred brand of shampoo. 

"Welcome home Master Dick," Alfred says, because Alfred always knows what to say. Dick smiles and, just for a moment, looks at the staircase as though a boy is going to come bounding down it and try to tackle him. That used to happen when Dick came home. Sometimes the tackling was even good-natured. "Dinner will be in an hour if you would like to take your things to your room." 

"Sure," Dick agrees. His eyes flick to Bruce's face, searching. For what Bruce isn't sure. "It's really pretty out there. Cold enough that the pond has to be solid by now. The snow might even stay pretty until Christmas." 

Ah, yes. Christmas. They'd long ago established traditions for it, hadn't they? Some kind of festive normalcy for an orphan ward he'd taken in. Dick has set a precedent in so many ways. "We are not going ice skating," He tells Dick instantly, because he knows what he's fishing for. 

Dick scowls. "Come on! It's great cardio! And it's fun! You're just afraid I'll totally upstage you because I have a killer triple axle and you-" 

"I had rather not stitch up wounds delivered by an ice skating blade this year," Alfred cuts in. "Not that I doubt your skills, of course, except for last year's fiasco." They all remember that. Blood all over the ice, bandages everywhere, and a very unhappy Alfred who had to pull hot chocolate off the stove to come see to all of them instead. 

"Fine," Dick agrees with a sigh. "But we should at least go out there. I want to slide around on the ice even if you don't. We can put on a bunch of layers so we look like marshmallows and I'm sure Alfred has those handwarmers to put down out coats." 

It's the same argument he'd used the first year. The first year he had a younger child to encourage out into the snow to participate in their traditions. To play. 

Jason. Jason had hated the cold. Winter had meant trouble for him. Winter meant scarcity. Snow meant nowhere dry to sleep and any edible food thrown out might be completely frozen by the time he got to it. Jason hadn't been able to fathom why Dick would want to go out in the weather unless forced to by patrol or other necessity. 

It had resulted in Jason putting on so many layers of clothing that he could barely move. Dick had rolled him down the hill like a giant snowball and Jason had returned the favor by riding Dick across the yard like a sled. 

Bruce can feel the set to his jaw harden. "We have insulating suits for patrol. Why would we need handwarmers?"

Dick can obviously see this trouble coming. "Because that's what normal people do, Bruce," He snaps in return. "Because you're not Batman when we go ice skating or we build a snowman. Because it's _fun_." 

Bruce's snort makes it clear what he thinks of that. Dick's eyes narrow. Alfred picks up his suitcase before any more can be said between them. "I suggest you go get cleaned up from your travels." 

A grin appears, just as easily as the stormy expression. "Thanks, Alfie. Even though I didn't travel long to get here. Are you saying I smell?"

He watches them go. Up the stairs. Past a room that is empty this year and into one that is empty most other times. Bruce simply sighs and goes into his office. He has work to do. 

~*~*~

"There has been nothing on the scanners for hours," Dick says. "The cops are having their holiday party, even. So unless you want to drop by that, maybe you should wrap it up." 

Nightwing wasn't seen in the Gotham skies tonight. It really has been quiet. There had been business as Dick Grayson to attend to. Friends to see. A date or two. Little gift exchanges and holiday cheer while he was visiting for the holidays. Bruce isn't sure if he should resent him for that or be proud that Dick has managed to create such a perfect cover after all these years. 

Of course Alfred has been urging him back for hours. The temperature has dipped well below freezing and he's concerned about the wear and tear on his immune system even if the butler is well aware it isn't the cold that actually gets people sick. 

In the clear, freezing air is the only place Bruce feels like he can think. Swinging through the skies, the silence hitting him heavily this time of year. He misses the voice beside him complaining. Huffing through the maneuvers that really stretch his legs to keep pace with Batman. He wants someone there to tell him how it's colder than Skadi's tits and then launch into a discussion about the Norse mythology book he's been reading when Bruce frowns at him for his language. 

There's no one to encourage them to call it an early night. No one who sucks down coffee for the warmth of it even though he vastly prefers tea or apple cider. No one who scrunches up his face when Bruce casually mentions it will stunt his growth. 

"I'll finish this sweep," Bruce replies to the communicator. He ignores the fact he's on the opposite side of the city, not even halfway through said patrol pattern. Physical exhaustion is hard to come by. Bruce can run the rooftops, can swing the skyscrapers, and he feels like his body will just keep going. It's his mind that wanders. 

"I'm going to drink all the eggnog that Alfred made," Dick threatens. "And it's the good kind. The _adult_ kind." Now he's just baiting him. Bruce almost, almost smiles. 

"He's not going to like it if you get drunk off his party favors," He says easily. "Eggnog hangovers are the worst, too." He knows from experience years ago. Something about dairy and alcohol just don't mix well. "You'll miss his pancake breakfast in the morning." If that's even still happening. Bruce isn't sure; he hasn't thought to ask. It seems pointless to cook pancakes for just the three of them even if that's what they'd done for years before. 

"Maybe not all the eggnog," Dick concedes. "But you should definitely come back before dawn." 

Dawn never comes soon enough. It's later in the dead of winter, of course. It's only in those limited hours that Bruce can find a little bit of rest. He can sleep for two, maybe three hours before he has an alarm set to get to a meeting. Or, worse, he wakes up with the sound of an explosion ringing in his ears. 

It's not good for him. His cardiovascular health is suffering and he hasn't found a way to combat it yet. The only doctor he's consulted has said it's chronic exhaustion and has suggested he stop partying so hard and doing any stimulant drugs. 

"I said I'd finish this sweep," Bruce answers. His tone is clipped and he sears he can _feel_ Dick bristle even through audio.

"Fine," Dick answers. Alfred must be right there staring at him for him to bite his tongue in such a way. "I'm going to bed." 

Dick is in bed when Bruce arrives back. Alfred isn't in the Cave, either. He's used to Bruce's increasingly later nights and he knows better than to try to keep up with him. One of them has to be reasonable, he supposes. 

Bruce showers in silence. He drops into bed, belatedly realizing he's forgotten to close his curtains. The moon glints off the snow, making everything oddly bright. His first thought is _frozen_ and he has to mock himself for that because of course it is. Snow is literally frozen water. But there's a certain stillness to it that leaves him staring, waiting to see if anything will disturb it. 

No footprints in the snow this year. No snow forts, no snowmen. No path cleared out for training and to keep an ice-free walk for Alfred to take some mornings. 

He shuts his eyes and tries to remember. Blue eyes. Different than Dick's and always so _guarded_. Curly hair that he would never admit was curly. Thick enough that Bruce swore he never had to worry about head trauma (and what a trick that had been) getting to him. Puppyish hands and feet that promised Jason would be tall and stocky one day when malnutrition stopped influencing his growth patterns. 

His nose had been broken a couple of times before Bruce ever got him. His knuckles were scarred. He'd filled out and didn't tuck quite so neatly under his arm any more, but he tried sometimes. He was always so _warm_ and Bruce would often catch himself checking for a fever. His brow creased in a certain place when he was focusing. He always went to anger first instead of fear. 

A thousand little details. They play through Bruce's mind most nights because he's terrified of forgetting any of them. He can write down how it felt to watch Jason execute the flip he'd been working on all week, but what if he never feels it again? What if they become empty words on a page? Void of emotion. Of sensation. Of memory.

He deserves better than that, so Bruce remembers. Bruce lets Alfred archive the training videos of Jason. He puts his costume in a glass case. He remembers him as a soldier in the cause of something greater, when he's in the Cave. 

It's up here he remembers him as a boy. A son. It's something Bruce never wants to forget.

~*~*~

He's late to breakfast, stumbling into the dining room when Alfred and Dick are halfway through their pancakes. Alfred rises instantly and Bruce tries to protest that the man should finish his food instead of waiting on him, but he can't quite find the voice. He can only sink into his chair and chug the coffee Alfred puts in front of him. 

Dick's look is knowing, but a little wary. He's been gone long enough that he's not used to Bruce pushing himself to quite this state. He's seen it during major cases, during a crisis, but not on some idle Tuesday of the holiday season. 

They don't comment on how many extra pancakes are left in the kitchen. Or how many of them are red velvet which Bruce had declared too rich to eat in the morning and Dick had been unable to drown in enough syrup to get the flavors to compliment one another. 

"Are we going to the Gordons' place tonight?" Dick asks as he washes some of the pancakes down his throat with a glass of juice. Bruce should urge him to chew more. To eat more politely. Dick used to have excellent table manners, even if Bruce thought he enjoyed food an odd amount. Until he'd met Jason. 

He remembers the red velvet flavor in the form of cupcakes. He knows the color when mixed with icing and stomach acid because Jason had eaten way too many of the miniature kind at a party. Bruce had reminded him he couldn't take them with him, lest the crumbs be smashed into the pockets of his newest suit. Jason had apparently taken that as a challenge to eat as many as possible until they left. He had barely made it out of the car before he hurled himself to the grass and threw up, with Bruce watching in dismay. 

He'd been annoyed, then. _Frustrated_ at first because Jason was going to be Robin. He should have more control than an average child gorging on sweets because a parent told them no. 

Alfred had watched sympathetically and helped Jason up when he was done. Bruce had found information on food scarcity sent to his office the next day with instructions that it was not to be brought home. He'd had enough tact to realize that Alfred didn't want him to bring it up to Jason.He hadn't told him again not to eat a specific food. 

"Earth to Bruce," Dick calls to him, waving a syrupy fork in his face. "Babs wants to know. Will we be there for hot cocoa and whatever? It's a pretty small party this year." Most years, actually. Bruce has appreciated the intimacy of the get together since it began, even if it is sometimes simply having Jim and Barbara over instead for a seasonal get together. 

"I don't think so." Bruce isn't sure why he answers the way he does. Just that it feels wrong, somehow. He can go to the official parties. He can pretend to be festive. But among people who know him? Who will be sympathetic to him? "I wouldn't want us to impose." 

Dick snorts. "You're kidding, right? The Commissioner would be glad to have you after what happened. And Barb? She was Jason's tutor. You know she loved-" He realizes, then, that he's said the forbidden word. The name he shouldn't say, even if it is on the tips of all their tongues. 

It's been eight months. It shouldn't be so fresh. There have been a hundred firsts without Jason. Dick's even been home a few times. But somehow this is different. This drags him back to the present and makes the hurt real again. 

"Barbara loved him," Dick finishes awkwardly. "He'd want you to go, wouldn't he? He'd make that sullen, grouchy face at you but then he'd put on a sweater and make sure it was just the right one to wear. With a shirt underneath because if it was above freezing he'd be sweating but-"

"What makes you think you know what he would want?" Bruce has been questioning that lately. Invoking the name of the dead. His parents would want this. They wouldn't want this. Jason would prefer this. Like they could still hold opinions and like they would be exactly the same as the living person invoking their name and voicing them. 

Dick looks taken aback and Bruce regrets it, for a moment. Things haven't been easy with his oldest (and only) son. Not before and especially not lately. "What makes you think you'd know any better?" Dick shoots back. "Or did he tell you how much he loved that Nutcracker Gala you dragged him to last year? You know the one where everyone tells you what a good person you are for taking him in and he feels like a cast off? Noticed you did that again this year. Soaking in all those sympathy hugs from girls in cocktail dresses?"

"Master Dick!" Alfred's scolding actually does make him shrink, but his eyes are still blazing. Fierce. Bruce should be proud of that look, should be proud of him defending Jason like that. Of wanting to take care of him. 

Too late now. And he couldn't keep him away from Bruce. 

"I'm going," Dick replies. "Because that's what we always do." Even if he's skipped it before. But Bruce can't point that out. He needs to be around those people. _Good_ people. Jim likes him. Barbara might love him. They don't invite bad people into their home, especially not for Christmas. They can soothe those wounds Bruce can't get to. They can keep Dick's time at home from being nothing but frustration and misery. 

Bruce sips his coffee without tasting it. "Take a plate of cookies." He can't send his boy empty handed. 

~*~*~

Timothy Drake arrives before Dick leaves, because of course he would never miss an opportunity to interact with him. Tim who knows their secrets. Tim who thinks Batman needs a Robin. 

Tim who has parents and still finds time to visit. He even brings gifts. Oven mitts for Alfred, some kind of modification to a video game system for Dick. Bruce gets a set of custom bookmarks, probably because he's scolded Tim in the past for dog-earing the pages of the books in the library. 

They are Jason's books and Tim is not Jason. The boy is a few years younger, a good deal smaller. He has dark hair but it's much finer, and it falls into his eyes already. But he's so enthusiastic. He wants so badly to make a difference. To matter. That's what makes Bruce hurt when he looks at him. 

He has to make him stronger. A better Robin. He has to keep him safer and to do that he can't treat him like he did Jason. It's logic. The failure was in the maker, not the model. He has to be different, this time, so that Robin's safety won't be at risk any more than it normally is. 

Bruce feels a little guilty, maybe, when he realizes he had fully intended to send Tim back out the door nearly instantly. It's Alfred who saves the day. Alfred who brings in eggnog and a gift for Tim. It's, judging by Tim's reaction, the proper tools and adhesives for constructing display items for photographs. It's thoughtful, and not overwhelming. 

Dick even tries. He's been a little ill at ease since realizing how easily a boy has unraveled his secret identity but he keeps up lively chatter, only occasionally shooting Bruce a worried look. One that clearly says he should be saying something. 

“Aren't your parents looking for you?” Bruce asks. Dick grimaces and Bruce knows it was the wrong thing to say. 

“Uhm,” Tim replies, looking taken aback like he does whenever he kind of wants to correct Bruce but is too in awe to do so. “They are out of town until tomorrow afternoon. The ground is perfect for digging or something? They've made great progress on the site.” 

He thinks Tim has said this before. “It's always nice to be able to get work done,” Bruce says simply. “Were you going to do some tonight?” He knows he's fishing, looking for something to occupy him to exhaustion tonight. He ignores the disapproving looks from Alfred and Dick both. 

But Tim Drake? He lights up like a firework and that is like Jason. He's so excited to potentially be Robin. He tries so hard. He works at nearly everything Bruce asks him to. Jason was a good soldier and Tim wants to be a better one. “If you want,” Tim agrees nearly instantly. “The housekeeper leaves at nine.”

He's automatically better, maybe, because he'll stay alive. 

“We have a party until probably eleven,” Dick replies, but he reaches out to ruffle Tim's hair to soften the blow of delaying his sneaking out of the house a couple of hours. “You should take a nap and eat something. I've tried living on custard and fruitcake and believe me it's not pretty.” 

“I know,” Tim laments. “Fruitcake is usually the worst. I mean, cutting it into birdarangs was pretty ingenious but you don't want all the bad guys thinking they are just going to get pelted with cake, right? But that was just so-” He stops. His eyes go wide. 

Dick takes pity on him, because Dick's so often stuck his foot in his mouth on this subject that he has to help. “It's so Jason,” He agrees. “He hated wasting food. Like you know that fingernail thing you can do with Bugle chips? He basically bit my fingertips off eating them because he was afraid I'd throw them away.”

Tim laughs, and his gaze strays to the fireplace. Bruce actually looks, then. Four stockings. He'd assumed they were ornamental, more festive things Alfred had hung for the newspaper photos that grace a special issue every year around this time. It's not, he sees now. It's one for him, and one for Dick. One for Alfred and the one Jason had proudly made himself. One of Alfred's first projects for him to teach him basic sewing skills. It doesn't have his name on it, but it may as well have it emblazoned at the top for all the good it does Bruce. He can still see the crooked stitches that give it a bit of a point to the end and he remembers how irritated it had made Jason before Alfred had assured him it was that much more space to acquire candy in come Christmas morning. 

“I should be going, though. I promised I'd have dinner with her before she goes home,” Tim says and Dick stands to no doubt show him to the door. Except Dick is shrugging on a coat, so maybe he intends on walking him all the way home. 

Bruce doesn't know what he says to Tim by way of farewell, but it makes Tim light up and he's glad that whatever part of his brain is controlling him now has some social graces. 

But Tim has a parting shot to get in. “Jason was great, you know?” He says. “I'll think of him whenever I see really hard fruitcake.” 

He stands at the window, watching Dick and Tim head down the snowy driveway. Dick pauses to scoop up snow and lobs a huge snowball at Tim's head. Tim's shriek carries into the house and he's instantly trying to return fire. The two of them run and tumble, and Bruce finds himself smiling the tiniest bit. He's glad Dick is happy. He's glad Dick hasn't burnt out on giving affection when things can go so terribly wrong. He wants Dick to be hopeful. He wants him to love. 

Maybe another younger brother. Maybe family. Bruce feels a little like a traitor for even thinking it. 

~*~*~

He goes to the party with Dick. It's a small gathering with stereotypical drinks and foods and games. Bruce and Dick pull so far ahead in game points that he makes Dick start playing with Barbara on his team while he sits a few out. No one mentions Jason, or 'difficult' changes. No one even sends him a pitying look and it's refreshing. 

It's only on the way home, realizing Tim will probably be waiting for him, that he has a pang of guilt. Of regret. Because just for a while things had felt almost normal again. Like there's not a piece of him missing. Like he's not about to let history repeat itself. 

He works Tim hard that night. Enough training that his real Christmas present is probably bruises and a pulled shoulder muscle. But his new protege is graceful about taking all the injuries. There's a fire in his eyes. There's a determined set to his chin. There's a sad kind of envy on his face every time his gaze falls on the case containing the last Robin costume. 

They only stop when Nightwing returns from his patrol of the city with very little to report, and thus no reason for Batman to go out tonight. Bruce is kind of surprised he isn't even that sorry over it. He sends Tim back home basically exhausted, but looking absolutely exhilarated. Maybe this might work. 

He ventures to the garage before he goes to bed. Tucked in a little used work room, out of view, is the car. The one that was going to be Jason's, one day. The one Bruce was getting estimates on to make certain it was repairable. They would do the work themselves, of course, but he doesn't want it to be a total exercise in futility. 

Alfred is behind him, quietly observing. He pauses beside him, as comforting and steady a presence as he's always been. For a moment they both simply stare at the mass of metal. The chipped paint. The damaged doors. It's a fixer-upper but it's rare enough that Bruce had known upon seeing it what joy his son would take in bringing it back to its former glory. Something to save. Something to restore. 

“I'm going to sell it,” Bruce says softly. He'd thought to do it the month after Jason died, but then he found he couldn't bear to even look at it. “I'm going to donate the money to the shelter down in the Narrows.” 

“For battered women and children,” Alfred says, confirming. The donation will be a drop in the bucket compared to what Bruce normally gives, but he thinks this one if going to be done in Jason's name. Anonymously, but for a Robin who would have saved his mother a thousand times over. 

“I think Jason would like it,” Bruce says. His tongue feels strange having said the name again. Without anger or bitterness or even grief. 

Alfred rests a hand on his shoulder. “I think he would like it very much, Master Bruce. He would have loved the vehicle but he would adore what the money it brings will do for children who were like him.” 

Bruce turns. He's not even sure what he's doing before he's edging against Alfred. When he'd been younger, much smaller, Alfred could put a gentle arm around his shoulders and it was like a security blanket. A shield to protect him from the rest of the world. He's bigger than the old man now. Much bigger. It turns into a hug more easily, even if Bruce knows he's stiff in it. 

Alfred rests a hand on the back of his head. The same as he did when Bruce was a boy. The same that Bruce has seen him do to Dick, or to Jason. “I don't want to touch his room,” He adds after a moment, even as Alfred's palm pats a rhythm out onto his ribs to finish the hug. “Nothing else. Just the car.” 

The butler nods. “It is already quite enough, Master Bruce.” 

_A Christmas miracle,_ Bruce thinks he'll describe it as later. But there's nothing miraculous about it. It's just a car and Bruce has sold hundreds in his life so far. A real miracle would be Jason being alive. Would be Jason's face when he got to drive it for the first time. 

There are going to be a thousand more moments, Bruce realizes now. A thousand more moments Jason will never experience. That Bruce will never see through his eyes. There is an entire life that will go unlived. There will always be that reminder of what he's lost, weighing on him. Next year will be his second Christmas without his son. The year after that the third. Bruce will never stop counting. 

But maybe next Christmas there will be someone else. Maybe a few from now Dick will have a life and maybe several (God, please let it be several) more and he might even have a child to share it with. There was a last that he didn't know was a last. There will be firsts. He has to remember it. 

He goes to bed with far more ease. He's just settling in when the door creaks open and Dick, clad in some kind of ridiculous matching pajama ensemble, comes padding in. Bruce is instantly on alert, but Dick only yawns and slides into the opposite side of his bed. 

“You are far too old to be doing this,” Bruce points out. Dick hasn't done it in...well literal years. Since before Jason was around and then some. “There are no monsters. The house is old. It makes noises. Your room is not any colder than my room.” He yawns. “I don't keep milk and cookies in here and I won't have a better view of Santa or his reindeer.” 

He can feel Dick wiggling his toes, getting comfortable. Bruce's bed is probably big enough to comfortably sleep six people but it never does. He gets no sleep with someone nearby; he's too attuned to their movements. “What if I'm here because I may have gotten a concussion on patrol and don't want to asphyxiate in my own vomit?”

“Then I'm sending you to the Cave for a medical work up,” Bruce replies. He knows Dick didn't take any head injury since the sensors on his mask weren't triggered, but he's not sure he wants to let Dick know that just yet lest he find some way to disable said sensors. 

Dick sighs. “What if I just drank too much grown up eggnog and am terrified of the hangover?”

“Then I don't see what sleeping in my room is going to do for that,” He answers. But he's so tired and throwing Dick out is going to take so much effort that he doesn't want to make. 

Dick's quiet enough that he thinks maybe he drifted off to sleep. “Because you fix whatever I'm terrified of even when you do nothing about it,” Dick says at last, softly. “Do you want me to go?”

It's...touching. It's panic inducing. There are plenty of things in this world he can't fix and yet, wrapped up under a warm blanket with Dick within arm's reach, they don't seem quite so bad. “You can stay. Just tonight.” 

~*~*~

Christmas Day dawns clear and pretty, with a bright sun that isn't warm enough to melt any of the snow but is certainly enough to make the scene rather picturesque. They eat breakfast in the kitchen and Bruce helps prepare it, because that's some kind of strange tradition too even if Alfred often only has him holding cup towels or washing dishes.

They open their gifts (more modest, now that there's no child to spoil) and watch their designated holiday specials. Most of them Dick can quote by heart and he does so, stretched out in front of the fireplace like an especially acrobatic and pampered cat.

Something's missing, Bruce thinks, and he wonders when the feeling is going to go away. Probably not for long. If there's anything Batman can do, Dick has told him, it's hold on to something for decades. He likes to think it was a compliment, but it probably wasn't. 

The lights on the tree are glowing warmly and Bruce gazes up at it from his position on the couch. More of Alfred's handiwork. But there, at the very top, the star that he's forgotten until this moment. It's paper maché and fringe. The gold leaf paint on it is elegant and done with a very careful hand. Bruce had been surprised it had come from Jason and that he'd made it himself after breaking a point off the old one. When he told him he liked the new one better, he hadn't been lying.

Just for a second, Bruce allows himself to remember a year before. Jason spinning wildly in the snow with arms above his head. Jason shouting, laughing, _grinning_ in that way that was so hard to draw out of him but so wonderful when you did. Jason devouring the peppermint crunch cookies he helped make and Jason providing a running commentary on the television shows. His hands carefully unwrapping presents he seemed to think would disappear at any moment. His weight as he collapsed on the couch next to him. But Bruce stops before it goes on too long. Before he can get melancholy. 

Today has felt peaceful. Relaxing. Today has felt like maybe the ice might thaw and spring might start. Robin's name comes from the season and even if Bruce doesn't believe in signs, he's willing to cede spring is as good a time as any for beginnings.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions? Comments? Suggestions for a future fic? Leave a comment or go [here](https://strikeyourcolors.tumblr.com/).


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